


Nuova

by scorpcollector96 (alwaysthedeepestblue)



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysthedeepestblue/pseuds/scorpcollector96
Summary: Alcohol, fear, and love rolled into one. A mess of emotions, and a bottle of pills.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ... I seem to write the saddest of things.

 

She holds the bottle aloft, deciding whether or not she should continue. She looks at it, and closes her eyes. The mix hits her lips, burning and potent, and she feels it travel down her throat, poisoning her, numbing everything. She laughs to herself. "How weak," she thinks.

The front door opens, and his keys hit the table.

"I'm home, babe," he calls out. His eyes search the apartment for a sign of her... And then he smells the alcohol in the air. "What—what are you doing—" He catches her standing in front of her desk, a glass bottle in her hand. She doesn't turn back, but proceeds to arrange papers, albeit shakily.

"Welcome home," she greets. Her words have a slur to them, and she realises that the bottle is almost empty. "I was just... Fixing." He frowns and moves closer.

"You've been drinking." Before she can take another gulp, he takes the bottle from her hand and throws it into the trash bin. "How many have you downed?"

She laughs. "One or two. Or three. Maybe two and three-fourths before you threw it."

"You shouldn't be drinking."

This time, she frowns, and takes a seat in front of her desk. "Hypocrite. You drink, too!"

"You know how I feel about you drinking alone."

"Ever since college, and it's ridiculous," she murmurs. He resists the urge to argue, knowing how she is when she isn't in her right mind anymore. He smells her breath, and doesn't recognize it to be anything from their cellar.

"What were you drinking?"

She doesn't hesitate. "A bit of everything I could find."

"And  why were you drinking?"

"I just felt like it." His persistence irritates her. "Why are you being such an ass?"

He isn't listening. "You drank three." Something in his stomach drops. "Where's the Lexapro?" She stares at him, and his panic grows. He rushes to the washroom, opens the cabinet, and looks for the dark brown cylinder he'd seen her take white pills from. He can't find it, and moves towards the bedroom. He rushes to open the medicine container, and his hands tremble as he checks if the pills are still there. Small circles of white greet him. One, two, three... All the way to thirty.

The set is complete. She hadn't taken more.

He allows a long breath to escape from his lips as he returns the pillbox and sits on the bed. She watches the entire ordeal in silence and horror, realising at that moment what had scared him. She hesitates to enter their bedroom. Suddenly, the effects of the alcohol wear out. The air is thick with fear and anger and relief. He clenches his fists, and then buries his face in his hands. She sits on the other side of the bed, and hugs her knees, watching him.

He breathes in.

"I wouldn't," she whispers.

He breathes out.

His eyes bore into hers. "Why were you drinking?"

She looks away, and her voice softens. "I wanted it to stop for a while." He doesn't understand, and she sees it in his expression. She explains further. "The pain. I wanted the pain to stop."

"What would've happened if you went into a coma?"

"I..." She winces. "I was desperate."

"Desperate to what?" he hisses. "Desperate to die?"

His voice breaks, and she's stays on her side of the bed. He breathes, allowing the tension to drain from his chest.  She's here , he thinks.  She's still here . Out loud, he asks her, "Do you know why I stopped smoking?" She recoils. He knows this side of her: the withdrawal, the apathy she builds within herself, the way she blocks everyone out because she doesn't want to hurt people anymore. It kills him to see her this low.

"I don't want to know."

He turns to face her. "But you do know," he insists. "I want to spend more years with you, because you deserved as much. You deserve more."

" _I don't_."

"You do." He takes her hands: they're cold to the touch. "I haven't touched a bottle of alcohol since Andy and Ria's wedding, two years ago. I haven't smoked in six years. I want to live for you."

Her eyes are cold. "Then live," she mutters, trying to close the conversation, but he can't take it anymore.

"I CAN'T DO THAT IF YOU'RE GONE!" His voice echoes within the room. "I just don't know if— if I'm enough to be a reason for  you ."

She stays quiet, but averts her eyes. He continues.

"Believe me when I say I'm afraid to lose you one day and never have you realise how much I love you and want you. I'm scared every single time I come home and I don't hear a sound— it drives me nuts having to leave you in bed every morning and I come back not knowing what I'll find."

"Your life," she mutters. "Never had to revolve around me and my suicidal tendencies. You could've chosen to be away, far away from me. You should have."

He scoffs. "My life is my own, and I want to be with you, I want to come home to you and hear your crappy jokes and see you smile and see you alive and happy—" he cuts himself off. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"It's just that sometimes I wonder... If you're happy with me."

"You shouldn't even ask—"

"I should ask. It's been so long since I asked. Every single day, I just want to know: are you happy? And I forget to ask because I think you're happy." He pauses. "Can you honestly say that now, with me, you're happy?"

She looks away, unable to answer.

He waits, as he always has.

"I'm not happy," she tells him, her voice barely above a whisper. She was afraid that the admission would end it all. The hurt in his eyes convinces her of this, but his arms wrap around her, and the tears come. "It's not because of you." She shakes her head and cries to the sound of his heartbeat. They sit that way for a while, and his hold around her tightens as she finds her voice. "I'm just so tired. So, so tired. I don't know how to explain it."

"I don't need to understand. I never did. I just want to be with you, if you want me to."

"I don't want you to go. I just..."

"Yeah?"

"I can't even love myself."

"Leave me to love you," he murmurs. "And you'll learn to love yourself eventually. I'll always be here, for you. With you."

She stays silent and tense.

"Just, please, go easy on the whiskey, 'cause I need a bit too," he adds, trying to lighten the mood. A fresh batch of tears spring from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. "I'm so sorry." He kisses her forehead, and then her lips. She tastes of regret and alcohol, but he kisses that away too. "I'm sorry," she slurs.

"I love you," he mouths. He feels her relax. Her breathing evens out. They stay that way, entangled within each other, and they fall asleep to the steady sound of each other's heartbeat.


End file.
